


The Meiyerditch Papers

by Laetitia_Laetitii



Series: Aileen Westbrook [8]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Darkness of Hallowvale, Gen, Morytania, Myreque, questfic, vyres
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7591228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laetitia_Laetitii/pseuds/Laetitia_Laetitii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a near-disastrous trip to the Kharidian Desert, Aileen has sailed from the ruins of Uzer to Burgh de Rott, where the Myreque have recently established their base, and now need her help again.<br/>This time, she has to infiltrate the dreaded ghetto of Meiyerditch in Sanguinesti in order to contact the Myreque there.  How deep into the darkness of Hallowvale will the journey take her?</p><p>Like Laetitia trying to call Hewlett-Packard's customer support, this fic is on hold and probably dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last Entry

 

    20th of Bennath, 162, Burgh de Rott, Morytania

    Once this entry is finished I will cut it out, together with the previous two dozen pages. These will be sealed in an envelope to be left with friends for safekeeping while I’m gone. If I don’t come back, they’re free to do with my papers as they please, since to my knowledge there is no-one who would care to have them.

    After the surgery, I’ll still have some thirty-odd pages left on this little book. It sounds like a lot, but where I’m going, writing materials will be in short supply. I will have to be sparing.

    There are several reasons for the excision. Not only do the previous entries mention the names of my friends and their current location, but they also detail too much about the organisation they belong to. Should I be caught —which is not entirely unlikely — my notes would lead our enemies straight to their door. Apart from that, they contain my real name and information about my personal history, both of which I will shortly leave behind.

    From tomorrow on, I will be known as Valentina. I will hail from the northern coast of Morytania, where my family squatted on the grounds of the old Rologarth Castle near Canifis. I will have been caught by the Watch in the latest roundup, and be a recent arrival in the human pen of Meiyerditch. I will have been placed in sector one by the sea, but my family will be in in the third sector further inland. I will be looking for a transfer.

    I have been told the name of a man who might be able to help me, if only he has not been killed or shifted himself. Ral —he’s a trusty, but he plays both sides, or at least used to. Polmafi, the only one of my friends here to have lived in Meiyerditch, knew him years ago, and says he was never averse to aiding his fellow humans.

    I can only hope he will be there to aid me now. My task is to contact the Sanguinesti order of the Myreque, should any of its members still survive. It has been several years since the two groups have communicated—Veliaf tells me they lost touch when his chapter moved camp from the Haunted Woods to the Hollows. Now they have relocated once more, this time to the cellar of an abandoned inn in Burgh de Rott, and want to know if the others are alive. To be precise, Veliaf wants to inform them of the discovery of the Rod of Ivandis, a weapon that can be used to harm the juvinate vyres. Now that the old mine is relatively safe to enter once more, they have been able to scratch together the materials for four more, one of which I will take with me.

    Therefore, tomorrow when the sun has risen, I’ll set sail for Meiyerditch. Despite the chronic shortage of tar or decent wood, the people of Burgh de Rott have managed to maintain three boats for fishing, and I have been granted the right to use the smallest of these for my mission. Together with a recent escapee, Polmafi has sketched me a map of the coast, which shows among other things a safe spot to dock and hide the boat. After that, I’ll have nothing to guide me but names.

    The names I am headed to are these: first Ral. Then Safalaan Hallow, Vertida Sefalatis, Flaygian Screwte. Four years ago, they were the known members of the Sanguinesti order, who at least then maintained a base in sector three. Calsidiu, the leader of the Myreque, does not apparently stay with either chapter, but prefers to keep his location secret. If any of them are alive, or if anyone who has known them is alive, I hope they will recognize at least one of the following names: Veliaf Hurtz. Polmafi Ferdygris. Radigad Ponfit. Ivan Strom. As for my own name, I’ll leave it here. Tomorrow I am Valentina Constantine, tonight I sign off and remain,

    Aileen Westbrook

    Myreque Prevail

 

 


	2. The Boat and the Tunnel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continues where The Last Entry ended. Aileen hits Meiyerditch and the wild ride begins.

25th of Bennath, 162, Morytania, Meiyerditch

 

    Bearing in mind the considerable prospect of this journal ending up in the wrong hands, I have switched to using invisible ink. My brush leaves no indentation on the paper, and once the liquid dries, all anyone opening the book will find is blank page after blank page, with a dozen leaves neatly excised at the front. I brought a small vial of the special ink —a gnomish invention — with me, but left the developing liquid in Burgh de Rott, where it waits with the rest of my possessions. The situation being what it is, I don’t know if I’ll ever see the words I write.

    This is what has happened since my last entry: On the morning of the 21st, I set sail from Burgh de Rott to Sanguinesti in one of the town’s fishing boats, a slightly leaky but steady craft. On the insistence of those who had escaped from Meiyerditch, I took with me as little as possible, since anything more would immediately attract unwanted attention from either the Watch or thieves. Under my clothes I hid my most prized possessions —a newly forged Rod of Ivandis, a silver sickle, and a small pack of medicine. The vyres, I was told, would kill anyone found with silver. Many humans would kill me for the potions. 

    I do not care to reflect too much on the uneventful journey. It lasted most of the day, and when at sundown the walls of Sanguinesti loomed ahead, I took down the mast and pulled into a thicket of bulrushes to wait for nightfall. The Watch, I had been told, has long settled into the living rhythm of its wards and is mostly active during the day. This meant that the safest time to sneak in would be at night, when a curfew is enforced in the ghetto, and only a handful of disinterested sentinels patrol the streets.

    Sometime after midnight, when the darkness was as complete as it was going to be, I left the shelter of the reeds and rowed for the city, until I reached the place where the walls crumble into the sea. The ramparts, solid as they look, are not stone through and through but consist of two thinner walls built six feet apart with an ancient wooden walkway rotting on top. Years ago, the sea level had risen drastically, and the south end of the wall was washed away, leaving it open. The debris was still there, nevertheless, in pillars and cairns, some rising above the surface, some hidden in the black water, and several times I almost crashed on an unseen rock before the faintest trace of foam alerted me to the danger. At last I slid between the walls, and the next wave thrust me bow-first on the gravel.

    I could see little, and in that artificial cave —where a few moonbeams shone through the broken boards —all other sounds were drowned by the roar of the ocean. The wind could hardly reach there, and the smell of salt and marine decay was overpowering. When I was content that I was no longer moving, I got on my feet and stepped on the wet gravel, shaking from barely-contained fear and exhaustion. In three short tugs I pulled the dinghy on shore, and without bothering to secure it, I sank down against the wall.  Out in the water, dodging the rocks, I had not had the time to think of the Vyrewatch. Now that I was safe —no matter how relative that term was here —I could no longer keep the thought contained: that had one of them spotted me, I would have been as good as dead. But as my heartrate slowly settled and cold sweat mingled with the salt spray on my face, I caught the faintest beat of leathery wings in the air —slowly, evenly, somewhere further inland. No alerts, no screams.

    When my legs felt strong again I got up, and dusted the wet sand off my clothes. Having done what I could to fasten the boat, I shouldered my backpack, picked up my walking stick, and headed deeper into the dark.

    As the tunnel went on, the gravel gave way to a steep uphill of muddy earth. It was a slippery climb, and with the walkway blocking but the smallest traces of light, I soon was proceeding by nothing but feel. I remember the moisture dripping down the walls and the smell of mildew growing ever stronger as I fumbled on. A man who had recently escaped from Meiyerditch had told the Myreque of this place. He had slipped out one winter’s night and had swum for his life until being thrown ashore on the other side. The oysters on the rocks had cut his hands to shreds and the following pneumonia had nearly killed him, but he had lived free ever since. According to him, near the top of the slope there would be a crack in the wall wide enough to climb through.

    When at last the ground turned even again, I saw that he had not lied —ahead on the right hand side, light fell in through a collapsed section in the inner wall. It was there in plain view, and I couldn’t help but think what that told of the total control the vyres held over their charges. No-one had bothered to shore up the sides, either, leave alone clear away the detritus. Careful to not dislodge anything, I climbed up the pile of rocks and peered over the side.

    My first impression was one of a ghost town. Against the night sky rose the wrecks of wooden houses, some two stories, some three stories high, all of them in various stages of falling apart. Some were missing roofs, others were missing walls, while on some there was nothing left of the upper floors but the timber frames. There was a sickly, greenish tint in their slimy wood, and I could not for the life of me understand how any of them were still standing.

    The stench was indescribable. It was the smell of shit and piss, death and decay, of rotting corpses and diseased bodies, and it hung in the air like a shroud. Somewhere between the houses, a few lone torches burned, but no light came from a single window. It was impossible to comprehend that anyone lived in that place.

    This was the second dangerous part. If I was caught slipping out, I would not only be guilty of breaking the curfew, but I would have to explain what I had been doing inside the wall. I waited for a long time, watching and listening, until I was certain that nothing moved in the alley ahead. I was poised right at the edge of the stone heap, ready to jump down on the other side, when suddenly something landed on the walkway.

    In the safety of the tunnel I had forgotten just how soundlessly a Vyrewatch could glide. Had it seen me? Hoping the thing could not smell me, I pressed against the wall and held my breath.  It was almost directly above me, and its long-clawed feet were visible between the boards. For a few, torturous minutes the vyre walked back and front, stopping every now and then as if to watch the scene. At last, when I was certain it going to raise alarm, the mighty wings hit air, and it flew off towards the beach.

    Nauseated as I was, I knew I could not waste time. There was no telling when the next patrol might show up, and if I had allowed myself to rest then, I might have fallen asleep. So, after listening keenly for a minute and hearing nothing but the distant waves (how could a city be that quiet?), I slipped through the crevice and landed in Meiyerditch.

    The fire has almost burned down, and it is getting too dark to write. What’s more, after curfew has been sounded —which will happen shortly —we will have to put out the lights and close all shutters. Before that, I need to clean out the brand again. The damage is so deep I feel hardly any pain, but the burn seems to be healing well with no trace of infection.

    The words fade out as fast as I write them. I’ll mark the point where I finished with a tear on the page’s edge, and continue tomorrow.

 


	3. Old Man Ral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Meiyerditch, we got fun and games. And mutilation and starvation and dysentery.

26th of Bennath, 162. Meiyerditch, Morytania

    I continue from where I left last night. It is morning now, and the downpour that started after curfew hasn’t stopped once. While Ral is out at work, I keep the fire going and empty out the pots and pans that collect rainwater on the floor. (Though I have boiled every cup of water I have drunk since coming to this place, the near-spoilt food is getting to me, and as a result I have barely been out of bed today. Nevertheless, I’d prefer not to use any medicine from the package, and therefore hope that this is a matter of adjustment.)

    I spent the night of my arrival in the wreck of a lean-to built against the wall, but I can’t say I slept much. Although the temperature was freezing and my clothes had never entirely dried out from the sea journey, I dared not risk lighting a fire. I lay curled up in the dark, wide awake and shivering, and from time to time I would hear the sound of beating wings as the Vyrewatch made their rounds. In between, Meiyerditch stayed unnaturally silent. At some point before dawn, I remember I had dozed off for a few minutes, when through troubled sleep I heard a baby cry nearby. It was the high-pitched, rhythmical wail of a new-born, and even in my frozen stupor I felt uneasy about the idea of something so helpless in this place. Then I fell unconscious again.

    When I woke up once more, pale, slanting light fell on the ground outside the lean-to. My limbs were stiff with cold, and every part of my body seemed to ache as I crawled out of the shelter to look around. If anything, Meiyerditch looked worse in the daytime, with nothing to tell house and ruin, or gutter and street from each other. But in the alley ahead I could see people pass back and forth, and the smoke from freshly-lit fires drowned out some of the infernal reek.

    Next, I had to locate my contact, or at least find out if he was even alive, and that meant I had to approach someone for directions. As I watched the passers-by, trying to make up my mind whom to ask, out of a house slipped a woman carrying a bucket on one arm and a baby on the other. It was too big to be last night's crier, but still pitifully small. Both were deadly pale and stick-thin under their rags, and at once it was clear to see that the child wouldn’t probably live much longer. The mother seemed like a safe bet, but when I greeted her, the fearful look on her face turned into a scowl, and she hissed a few words under her breath:

    “Get off the alley! Walk under the eaves, like everyone else, if you’re going to talk to me!” She sounded more frightened than angry, and as she spoke, she quickly glanced around for a Watch. “Are you new?” She asked, taking the trouble of introductions out of my hands. “Always walk under the eaves, never in the open. They don’t like people who don’t show enough fear.” I nodded and thanked her, and as she made no move to leave, I went on:

    “Please, where can I find the house of a man named Ral?”

    “Old Man Ral?” She said. “The trusty?” I nodded. She shifted a bit on her feet, and I could see she did not like the question. Unable to think of another way to convince her, I reached into my pocket and pulled out piece of bread, which I proffered towards her. At once, the woman snatched it from my hand, and having taken a sniff, stuffed it inside her shirt.  “They didn’t confiscate your food?” she asked, amazed.

    “They left that,” I hazarded. “They didn’t check my pockets well.” I was not going to tell her about the hardtack and smoked eel in my backpack. I knew I would need it myself, not just for eating, but to barter with as well. But she seemed satisfied with the gift, and motioned for me to follow.

    “Come,” she said. “You’re lucky. Ral lives along the way to the well.” I followed her through the maze of filthy lanes, past other starved and dishevelled people. Yet, despite the hopeless squalor, their activities seemed almost disturbingly mundane. All around us, morning chores were being done, with some carrying water or firewood, while others headed away in small groups, bearing tools. I saw dust and dead roaches being swept out of houses, and smelled unseen meals cooking inside the tumbledown shacks. In open doorways, naked children with dirty faces peered out. Although I tried not to look, I could not help but notice that we didn’t come across a single healthy-looking person.

    After many turns and corners, my guide stopped in front of a house whose upper storey had all but collapsed. Quickly, she rapped on the door, and called in a low voice:

    “Ral! Ral, it’s Mila!”

    I heard footsteps from inside, and after a while the door was opened by an old man with a long silvery beard. He leaned on the doorframe with one hand and on an old walking-stick with the other, looking back and forth between Mila and me.

    “What is it?” he asked, clearly already suspicious.

    “Ral,” Mila whispered, “the girl is new, but she asked for you by name.”

    “And what did she give you to bring her here?” he sneered.

    “Bread,” Mila answered triumphantly. “Real bread. And I’m keeping it all and she says she doesn’t have more.” And with those words, she fled the scene and left me face to face with Old Man Ral.

    “It is better you get in,” he said. “It doesn’t do to tarry in doorways here.” After a reflexive glance around the alley, he pulled the door shut behind me.

    Despite the wretched state of the house, it was clear that its inhabitant at least tried to keep order. The dirt floor was bare but swept clean, and the few sticks of furniture looked well-scrubbed. Shelves lined the walls, filled with pots and jars, and to my surprise, books. Behind a flimsy partition, I could see a bedroom.

    “So,” Ral started, looking at me warily. “What is your name and business?” His speech resembled more that of the north coast, or maybe Mort’ton, and I found it easy to follow after Mila’s harsh accent.

    “My name is Valentina,” I replied, letting the rehearsed story come out. “I was brought to the city in the last shipment. I was placed here, but the rest of my family was taken to the third sector. Someone said —I was told that you might be able to help me get a transfer.”

    “And why would I do that?” He spat, clearly uneasy. “What is in it for me?”

    I paused, and then decided to take the risk. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I looked him straight in the eye and said: “For an old friend. Polmafi Ferdygris.” At the mention of the name, Ral’s eyes widened. He began to stammer out a response, but I pressed on. “Do you remember him? You helped him a lot, before he escaped. Or if you have heard of his friend Veliaf?”

    Ral stayed quiet for a while. He licked his lips once, twice, and then asked quietly:

    “And your family…” he let the question trail off, unwilling to say the word.

    “Safalaan,” I formed the name on my lips. “Vertida. Flaygian.”

    “Ye-yes,” he replied at last. “Your family is in the third sector.”

    “And will you help me get to them?”

    “I…I will do what I can, but transfers are outside my power,” he said, sitting down on one of the chairs. “I am a clerk at the sector one's store house. I can get you food, but for a transfer, you would probably need to go to someone from work assignments.”

    He motioned for me to sit down as well, and I complied. Ral seemed pensive and about to sink to his thoughts, but I needed answers.

    “In the meantime,” I whispered, “can I stay here?”

    “I suppose you must,” he answered, “It is the safest option.” Then he seemed to snap out of his thoughts, and a look of fear came on his face.

    “Show me your hand!” He hissed. I had leaned against the table, and now he was pointing at my left hand with a shaking finger. When I didn’t extend it fast enough, he snatched it and studied its back, then did the same to the right one.

    “You didn’t say you were unmarked,” Ral muttered, still looking at my hands. “You sneaked in, didn’t you? You were never processed?”

    “No,” I replied truthfully, although I had no idea what he meant by either marking or processing. “I came here on a boat.” Hearing these words he got up, and ordered me to follow him to the room in the back. It was even sparser than the previous one, containing little more than an old bed and the wreck of a staircase to the second floor. Ral shuttered the only window, and then came back to me.

    “You must wait here, do you understand,” he said. “Do not leave the house. Do not let anyone see your hands! How many people have you talked to here?”

    “Just the woman who brought me here,” I whispered. “And she paid no attention to my hands.” Truth to be told, no-one in Meiyerditch seemed to pay attention to anything.

    “Good,” he said curtly. “Mila keeps to herself. But before I return, you must not go out at all. Stay here!” Having said that, he took from a nail a broad-brimmed hat and an old jacket, and limped out of the door.

    Finally alone, I sat down on the bed, astonished by the quick turn of events. Nothing of what Ral had said had made much sense, but I presumed I would learn soon enough. After a while, I suddenly realized how hungry I was. I dug out from my backpack a bit of bread and the jar of eels, and unable to care about matters of cleanliness, ate both with my hands. After that, I changed into my dryer spare clothes, and hung the damp ones off the rafters to dry. I sat like that in the corner, staring at the decaying boards of the ceiling until weariness overtook me and I fell asleep on the floor.

    I woke up to the sound of the door opening and shutting. Ral’s footsteps, punctuated by the clicking of his cane, came to the partition, and soon he appeared at the entrance.

    “There you are,” he said. “I got what I needed, although I have to say it wasn’t easy.” With that, he disappeared back into the front room, and soon smoke from a freshly-started fire spread through the house. From the lack of light outside, I could see I had lost most of the day. Cautiously, I peeked around the wall to find my host sitting on a stool, taking tools from a jute bag.

     “I got some extra barley from the storehouse for you,” he said, not looking up. “A Watch’s personal tithe owed me a favour. It ought to get us through to the next week.” There was something strange about his tone.

    “I take it you weren’t that worried about fetching food,” I said. I couldn’t tell whether the blackened implements he was laying on the table belonged to a blacksmith or a surgeon, but I didn’t like the look of them.

    “No,” he said. “But build up the fire for me, Valentina. We’re going to need it as hot as possible.” I did as I was told, and kept adding dry branches, while the clinking of metal behind me continued. When the flames burned tall and white, Ral seemed to find what he was looking for. He limped over to me, and rested it against the rocks lining the fire pit so that the head lay right in the middle. I knew what it was right away.

    “Everyone who is brought here is marked,” he said, almost apologetically. “That way the vyres can spot infiltrators and runaways. If you go about Meiyerditch without your mark, they’re going to want to know how you avoided getting one, and they won’t stop asking until you give an answer.”

    The thing over the fire looked a bit like a poker, but it wasn’t one. It was about a foot and half long and made of wrought iron. On one end of the thin stem was a triangular loop for a handle, on the other was affixed a little ring, no larger than a Misthalinian gold coin. Inside the ring a skilled metalworker had shaped a symbol that looked like teardrop surrounded by arrows. It was a branding iron.

    I have some difficulty continuing this entry. Two hours, equalling four emptied pots, have passed since I finished the previous paragraph.

    It is not that I did not lost consciousness, no matter how I wished for that relief. I was very much awake and very much active, nor did my memories become unclear afterwards. I simply do not wish to write about it. And at any rate, anything I can think of to point out about my thoughts at the time, about how I felt about being branded like an animal and marked as property of the House Drakan —it all rings hollow in my ears because of the plain fact that I came to this place of my own accord. Everyone in Meiyerditch; every man, woman and child over twelve weeks old carries the same symbol in his or her flesh, and none of them were ever given a second option about it. I was, I volunteered. Thus, it does not matter whether I cried or screamed. It does not matter what I thought of when he gave me his old leather satchel to bite down on. It does not matter how I felt when he told me to place my hand on the brick and hold on to it, or when he swabbed clean the taut skin between my thumb and forefinger with a rag. He did all of it gently, not to mention in private, and that’s more than any of the souls trapped in this abyss had.

    I will not speak of it.

    That was four days ago. Ever since, I have stayed here as his guest. I help where I can. I avoid going outdoors. My brand heals slowly underneath the bandage. In the meantime, Ral has been asking around about the chances of a transfer for me —so far it seems it might be possible, if only we find a way to attach me to a work detail in number three. He says we have to find the right person, and then find the right thing to bribe him with. It’s how everything works around here.


	4. The Cattle Pen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon time! Some notes on life in Meiyerditch.

31st of Bennath, 162, Meiyerditch, Morytania

Should anyone ask why more humans do not attempt to flee Meiyerditch, the answer is simple: they’re too weak to do so. The Vyrewatch, the Void knows, do a frighteningly lax job of guarding their wards, and instead let sheer hunger do their work. The chronic starvation, the atrocious lack of sanitation, and the constant cold and damp conspire with the mercilessly regular blood-tithings to keep the people, at all times, half a step from death.

After less than two weeks in this place, my own health has already deteriorated drastically. Rapid weight loss has left me weak, and I live in permanent dread of the brand on my hand becoming infected. Despite diligent scrubbing and sweeping the fleas find us every night, and by now my legs are covered in itching bites. Nevertheless, I must bear in mind that I still retain full veins of blood, and while I do so, I am healthy compared to the rest of the population.

I continue to stay at Ral’s house. So far, we have failed to find anyone who might be able to help me with the sector transfer. But as he has to remind me, this does not mean that all hope is lost —everything here takes time, and nothing ever happens quickly. At his behest, I have stuck indoors, and in the absence of anything else to do, I have compiled notes on life in the ghetto.

Meiyerditch is, essentially, a huge cattle pen. And after what I have seen here, I can readily say that the vampyres of Morytania must be the most incompetent farmers to ever manage a herd. Their callous lack of care, their inefficiency and ineptitude in keeping their food source alive, is beyond any comparison. Take the matter of rations, to start with. For any herder, making sure his animals are fed is his primary concern. Yet the vyres, despite having the resources to do better, have their livestock in a state of perpetual malnourishment, which not only prevents recuperation between tithings, but exposes them to an endless amount of diseases.

All food for the city —barley, beans, whatever vegetables manage to turn up in the sour ground —is grown on the eastern coast of Sanguinesti, where humans tend to the crops under a guard of Vyrewatch. Ral tells me that the field detail is one of the most coveted work crews, not because of the chance of escape (there is none), but because of the opportunity to steal food. Although anyone caught in the act of theft is punished harshly, most of the time the Watch turn a blind eye, and the workers will often return to the city with their clothes stuffed full of half-raw vegetables. 

As for the crops that are brought to the great storehouses of Meiyerditch, most of them are spoiled by the time they reach their eaters. Provisions are dealt out every fourteen days according to an inflexible schedule, in an arrangement that heeds neither need nor common sense. The beans for sector four might be in excellent condition when they are picked, but if ration day has just passed, they will have to wait in storage for two weeks —two weeks in damp in the winter and heat in the summer, two weeks with rats and roaches, before the sacks are brought out, and the people line up to receive whatever is left. It makes no sense, the losses are plain to see to everyone, and yet no-one dares suggest the simple changes needed to alleviate the state of affairs.

The same absurdly indifferent attitude extends to housing and sanitation. Although one of Ral’s books (he has a surprisingly large, if badly battered collection) mentions the city having sewers dating back to the days of Saradominist Hallowvale, the vyres never thought to either maintain or expand them to accommodate the growing population. As a result, these days the only sanitation system the ghetto has consists of a few leaking open-air dumps for waste, emptied once a month regardless of the conditions. The smell is unbelievable, and the houses around them stand permanently empty.

As for the buildings themselves, no-one knows their age. In contrast to the apathy of the vyres, the inhabitants of Meiyerditch take excellent care of their homes. They fix their roofs with broken-down crates and convert old partitions to furniture. They dig up clay from the ground to cover mouse holes and recover every thrice-used nail from rotten boards. They salvage from ruins and steal from the storehouses, but patching up wrecks with scraps helps little in a situation where the only sensible thing to do would be to tear down the place street by street and rebuild from the foundations up.

It is built way too full. Cracked chimneys and open fire pits are everywhere. In the summertime, when Sanguinesti is dusty and dry, one good blaze could wipe out an entire sector effortlessly, and only sheer luck has kept it from happening so far. The vyres treat their stock as completely dispensable, as if they’re ignorant of that fact that Morytania has become almost depopulated. And if the current ones, whose children hardly ever reach adulthood, die off, where do they plan to feed? None of it makes sense.


	5. Mila

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short one. Realities of life in Meiyerditch

    32nd of Bennath, Morytania, Meiyerditch

    Mila dropped by today. She had received a note from her baby’s father, who was taken to sector number five months ago, and needed someone to read it to her. Literacy is rare everywhere in Morytania and practically non-existent in Meiyerditch, which means those who can both read and write never run out of business to do.

    She sat with Ral at the rickety table, the baby in her arms, while he read aloud the letter. I was cooking dinner in the corner, and heard the whole thing, of course.

    As Mila had suspected, he was asking if she could send him food —the conditions in number five were much worse, and most of what they had received on the previous ration day was too rotten to eat. He had a reliable connection who could take the package across sector four for a small cut, if only she had anything extra to send.

    At this point, Mila almost screamed. She broke down in tears, and when she could speak again, the first thing that came out of her mouth was a string of curses and insults. Extra? Anything extra? She was barely feeding herself, she had never recovered from the birth properly, and any day now her milk would dry out. And he thought she had something left over to give? He listened without a word, and let her cry for as long as she would.

            “It’s not that I wouldn’t send him a package _if I_ _had anything to send_ ,” she said at last. “He took good care us, didn’t he? He was caught stealing planks to repair the roof on our home, that’s why they shifted him…” her voice trailed off.

    “Do you want me to write a response?” Ral asked, at last. Mila stared at nothing for a while, trying to suppress her hiccoughs. Then she nodded.

    “Yes,” she said, her voice level again. “Write in it that I have nothing at the moment, but that if I get anything, I will send it through the man who brought the note.” Ral complied, and set to work. He used a piece of soft cloth to rub off the letters, and then wrote down Mila’s message. Like all notes passed through the underground relay system, he left it unsigned and without the recipient’s name. The bearer would know where to take it. When the ink had dried he folded it in half, and handed it to Mila. She began to fumble in her apron pocket, but he bade her to stop.

    “It’s alright,” he said. “You better take it to the fence before the curfew.” Mila looked down, but said nothing. She stuffed the letter inside her shirt and got up to leave. At the door, she suddenly stopped and called to me.

    “Valentina,” she said, “Ral says you can write. Is that true?"

    “Yes,” I replied, taken aback.

    “Never write anything for free,” she said, “people will bleed you dry.” And then she was gone.


	6. Life Goes On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today on Headcanons and More Headcanons: What is the small castle in southern Meiyerditch? What are the best jobs for stealing food? What to expect if you are sent to the mines —daeyalt poisoning and its implications — the pros and cons of becoming a personal tithe — and much more!

 

    1st of Raktuber, 162, Meiyerditch, Morytania

    Out of all the horrors of this forsaken place, the single most disturbing thing is how _normal_ everyday life in Meiyerditch is. The tithings, held every six weeks for each sector, kill people every time. The Vyrewatch are everywhere, and no-one is safe from their arbitrary violence. New captives are continuously brought in to replace the dead, and from each consignment, a section is taken behind the walls of Darkmeiyer to be converted. Taking all this into account, the inhabitants of the ghetto seem to lead lives that are almost terrifyingly mundane.

    In Meiyerditch, you live by a routine. Curfew, work shifts, ration days, tithings. These dictate where you are at which hour, and anything else you want done has to be fitted in between. In Meiyerditch, you also live by a code of unwritten rules that every newcomer learns in his first week: Mind your own business. Keep your head down. Never tell on others. Steal from the communal storehouses if you can, but never from other humans. Keep your contact with the vyres to a bare minimum. And most importantly, always obey the Watch, because otherwise your entire sector might suffer the consequences.

    But within those limits, life goes on. People eke out a living any way they can, and all try to get ahead. They vie for better homes, a transfer to a preferred sector, or a job with more chances to steal. With the chronic shortage of everything, everyone steals all the time (further contributing to the chronic shortage of everything) and black market trade flourishes, heedless of the sector lines. Outside of working hours, anyone with special skills can find other sources of income —and I’m not merely talking about scribes, midwives or carpenters, but also smugglers, message-runners and commissioned thieves.

    Different sectors have different perks and downsides, which keeps the traffic of both people and goods going. Number one (where I’m writing) and number two are both sought-after placements. This is partly because the houses are built further apart, and partly because the sea wind keeps the air fresher, but mostly because of the beach, which provides additional nourishment. From time to time, when the vyres are feeling magnanimous, they’ll let the humans wade out during low tide to gather shellfish and seaweed, both priceless commodities. These, together with fish caught from tidal pools travel through the city, their price doubling or tripling at each fence.

    Number two, moreover, is the home of the guardhouse —a walled-off, windowless fortress in the south-east corner of Sanguinesti — which houses the Vyrewatch headquarters, the main storehouses, as well as an administrative centre. This makes the second sector the desired address for those wishing to become trusties, servants or personal tithes.

    The Vyrewatch will do nothing but keep guard. Supervising and administration is left to the despised juvinates, but even they are never made to do lower-level work. As a result, anything else from cleaning to bookkeeping falls on the humans. Trusties, who frequently earn their positions by talking, assist the vyres at blood-tithings and ration dealings or hold clerical positions. The servants maintain the guardhouse, doing everything from laundry to organizing the stockrooms (which offers a fantastic opportunity for stealing). Lastly, there are the personal tithes. Legally speaking, only the vyrelords of the upper city are allowed to own tithes, but the Watch in the ghetto have established their own system, and the higher-ranking ones will show off their power by marking a human or two for personal use. Gruesome as it sounds, the rank is widely coveted. The perks of food and protection are invaluable, even if they come with a certain amount of social scorn, as anyone who works too closely with the vyres is suspect in the eyes of the general population. Most people, though, keep such feelings to themselves. Who would incur the anger of a vyre’s property or assistant, even a known informer? Who, when they have access to the food stores, to the tools locked up at the guardhouse, to the ear of the work detail officer?

    Sector number three, which creeps along the eastern wall, houses the field detail, and is thus known proverbially as the best-fed part of town. The biggest downside (according to Ral) of living in number one is that it does not share a border with three, which means that black market vegetables here are obscenely overpriced.

    Number four has nothing to its name save for being the largest sector. Number five hasn’t even that. As I write, I’m reminded of the father of Mila’s baby, who was taken to five for stealing. His infraction must have been minor, otherwise he would have ended up in six.

    Sector number six, right at the gates of Darkmeiyer, is a punitive unit used to house those deemed guilty of serious offences. Besides having a longer curfew, worse rations and stricter surveillance, it contains the entrance to the dreaded daeyalt mines under Sanguinesti.

    No-one knows what the glittering, green-blue daeyalt ore is for, but the vyres have been mining it ever since their arrival. As a result, the shafts now reach miles into the bedrock, and the conditions in them become more and more dangerous every year. Being sent underground is usually a death sentence, and the few who survive their indiscriminately dealt sentences will often remain sick for the rest of their lives. (A few days ago, I asked Ral about a strange condition that seemed to affect several people in our neighbourhood: their skins are not pale, but an unnatural grey-white, and their hair is colourless even in youth. He told me that all those people had been in the mines — something in the ore or the gases emitted in the excavation process can cause a permanent loss of colouring, though no-one knows how. The milder cases, he said, look as if they are dusted with chalk powder. The serious ones, the ones who did years in the pits, resemble salt pillars. In the same breath, he instructed me to watch out for anyone with a daeyalt poisoning. Not because the ailment is contagious, but because anyone who made it all the way from the mines to a nice place like sector one probably earned the transfer by telling tales.)

    Speaking of transfers, we may have good opportunity coming up to arrange mine. Tomorrow is ration day in sector one, which means we will receive food and firewood for the next fourteen days. The foodline is supervised by a unit from the guardhouse —both vyres and human trusties, which will give us a chance to ask around.

    In my ignorance, I first asked Ral if it was possible to approach one of the juvinates who authorize transfers and work crew lists. It probably would be, he told me, but I would have nothing to bribe one with. The only thing a human has that a vampyre wants runs in our veins, and in here they can have that anytime they want. Get the vyre’s servant, he said, and find out what he wants. That way, too, your chances of being beaten or drained to within an inch of your life are considerably smaller.

    Tomorrow we'll see.


	7. Ration Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vyres feed the humans, and Aileen receives an offer.

3rd of Raktuber, 162 Meiyerditch, Morytania

Ration day is over. Not only are we re-stocked, but I very definitely have a lead, although one that I am cautious to pursue. Of course, as things around here go, it is likely that the choice will be made for me.

By yesterday, we had been living off provisions meant for one for nearly two weeks. Consequently, even with the supplies I had brought with me, and even with Ral’s job as a storehouse clerk offering splendid opportunities to steal, we were out of just about everything.

I woke up late. In this short time, my body has learned the rhythm of Meiyerditch. It knows that around six in the morning — when the first light appears in the east, though invisible to those inside the walls — the Watch will announce the end of curfew with ear-splitting screeches that echo over the empty lanes for minutes. In response, I’ve come to anticipate the reveille, and wake up unprovoked half an hour in advance. The previous night, however, I had taken a turn for the worse again, and overslept grossly.

Ral was already gone, since like the rest of the trusties, he would receive his rations before the general population. Before leaving, he had made the remainder of the barley into gruel, of which there was maybe half a cup left. I broke fast alone, scraping clean first the pot and then Ral’s bowl. Out of food and still hungry, I dug from my backpack a dramenwood stick from which I whittled off a sliver. Over years of travelling, I have found that chewing on dramen, which has a flavour reminiscent of cinnamon, keeps the saliva flowing and the pangs at bay, and I’ve taken to always carrying a bit with me. So, as the weakly glowing sun finally made it over the wall I stuck the pick between my teeth, took the bags and crate Ral had left me, and headed for the gallows.

Every sector in Meiyerditch has a hanging-post, which functions as what you could call a centre of civic life. Official announcements are made from the gallows. Tithings and rationings are held at the gallows. Occasionally, when they want to set an example, the Watch will hang people. They put a vat under the trapdoor, Ral says, and slit the victim’s throat right after the drop. It’s usually reserved for people who resist direct orders.

In number one, the gallows is at the waterfront near the wall, and that’s where we were headed. Men and women, children being carried or lead, all bearing sawed-off crates and jute sacks. On ration days, no-one stays at home, as it is not permissible to fetch provisions on the behalf of another, which means that anyone wishing to be fed has to be physically present at the food line. I saw the sick and the injured being supported, and one man being carried on a makeshift stretcher by two others. Parents held on to their children, who would receive provisions adjusted according to their ages. Towards the end of a ration period everyone is short, and on each gaunt, bloodless face around me I saw the same expression; the same dull determination.

At the gallows, the station was all set up. A table had been placed in front of the scaffold, and behind it sat two bored-looking trusties, protected by a group of juvinates. On and under the platform were piled crates and barrels, which the storehouse workers were levering open. When I saw the guard, I remember wondering how long it had been since any of them had stood in the line. Could they remember it?

From the barricade erected in front of the gallows, a queue zigzagged all over the beach. It took me some time to locate its end, which had already disappeared between the houses. An airborne Watch was swooping over the crowd, screaming abuse at the humans and ordering them indiscriminately into the line. I fell in as it pointed at me, and settled into the hours-long wait behind a woman accompanied by two children.

It was still early morning when I arrived. It would be near dark when I finally returned home.

It’s hard to describe the endless hours that the inhabitants of Meiyerditch spend standing in lines every fourteen days. Those queues —where time drags on ever slower each minute — represent everything that is broken about the system the vyres have created, and everything that is degrading and obscene about their treatment of the humans. To stand in the open air hour after hour, with no chance to either sit down or eat, regardless of the weather or one’s health —the invalids on their stretchers, the elderly leaning on canes, the dying toddlers and the few pregnant women…and for what? To receive just enough food to fight off starvation for half a month, often spoiled, fare that a Misthalinian peasant wouldn’t give his animals. For an adult, that means four scoops of barley and four scoops of beans, half a scoop of salt and whatever the pitiful “vegetable portion”, meant to fight off scurvy, entails. For a child under twelve, half-portions. For a child under five, quarters.

And what would it take for the vyres to make the procedure a little more efficient, a little less demeaning? What would it take for them to have ten trusties doing the handouts rather than two? What would it cost to have the sector come out in smaller groups, instead of having the whole population stand outdoors all day, regardless of the conditions? To store the food properly? To check the produce for mould? Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

The sun climbed towards the zenith, and I was in the line. The sun began its descent to the west, and I was in the line. At one point, dark clouds gathered in the sky, but thank goodness no rain ever came to pass. In front of me, the woman put her smaller child down, and it went on sleeping on the bare ground. A few metres further ahead, an old man was relieving himself in full view of everyone. I heard a few tongues cluck, but we all knew that leaving even for seconds meant losing your place. Every few minutes the procession would move, and the two men with the stretcher would nudge their friend along.

Out over the sea, I could see two gulls circle over their prey. No birds ever come to Meiyerditch. They know what will happen to them, and these two kept their distance. Hungry as I was, though, I couldn’t help but think how easy it would be to take out one of the gulls with a slingshot, if only they came a bit closer. There’s good eating in an adult seagull, even if it tastes like fish, and I noticed I wasn’t the only one sizing them up. Then the line lurched forward, and on his stretcher the sick man cried out in pain as he was moved. I switched the sliver of dramen from the left cheek to the right and went on chewing.

When afternoon slid into evening, I was finally close enough to the gallows to observe the proceedings. The queue ended some ten metres from the table, and from there people were called to the front one by one. I could see them showing their hands to the first trusty, then being dealt their supplies by the second, after which they hurried off past the leering juvinates.

The stretcher-patient was carried to the table, where he sat up laboriously to show his brand. After his two friends had collected their rations as well, they piled all the crates on the canvas and disappeared between the houses with their creaking, moaning load.

Then the old man who had pissed in front of everyone went up. Then a pregnant woman who limped her right leg. The day was all but gone, and I stuck my hands in the opposite sleeves to keep them warm.

The woman before me was up next. I saw her show the trusty first her own brand, and then those of her children. The man did something to them, while his colleague ladled grain in her sacks. Full set for her, quarters for the children, neither one of whom would probably see their twelfth year. Six scoops of barley, six of beans. She needed both hands to carry the full crate, and the little ones trailed her closely, shooting quick glances at the vyres.

Then it was my turn. Feeling the eyes of the vyres on me, I walked up to the table, and stopped in front of the first trusty. He nodded at me, and I extended to him my left hand. He took it, and studied the mark between my thumb and forefinger.

“You’re the one who’s staying with Old Man Ral,” he said, neither letting go nor looking up.

“Yes,” I said, taken aback. The vyres barely keep count of their cattle, and the brands are all exactly the same. How he knew who I was meant someone had been talking.

“You’re after a transfer,” the man said lazily. He took a brush from a pot of ink in front of him, and painted a stripe over the brand. “That shows you’ve received your rations. It’s cleared, fill her up,” he told to the other one, still holding my hand. He kneaded it between his fingers, and looked at it as if he was trying to decide whether to buy it. “I hear you’re literate,” he said, while his colleague loaded up my crate.

“I am,” I replied quickly. After hours of standing, I couldn’t tell if we were taking longer than was normal. The juvinates, at least, didn’t seem to pay any attention.

“You can write? There’s always use for people who can write at the storehouses.” Then he looked up and down at me, and sneered. “You look healthy, too. There’s more flesh on you left than on most people here. Might want to keep it that way. I’m sure someone at the guardhouse would find some use for you. And keep you fed in return.”

“You?” I asked. Through the cold numbness of my skin, I could feel a red-hot rage rise within me, but I kept my voice level and my face blank.

“Me?” He said, smiling his crooked smile. “Maybe. And if I were to put in a good word for you and secure you a place…” he let his voice trail off, and at the same moment, the other one threw a bundle of firewood in my crate.

“Done,” he said gruffly, looking as if he had not heard a word of our conversation. I had been so focused on talking, I had not paid him any attention. Now I could see my provisions, and it was close that the rage didn’t boil over. It was not because of the trusty’s proposal. It was because when I saw the contents of the crate, I was hit by the sheer indecency of the idea that the vyres expected humans to live on it. Greyish barley in one sack. Ancient dried beans in the other. Three softened heads of cabbage, black from frostbite. All I would eat for the next two weeks.

“Move it,” the second trusty said. I had not realized I had frozen there, and quickly grabbed the crate before the vyres got interested. Seeing nothing and feeling nothing but my own indignation, I walked home through the endless maze of filthy alleys, past the mouldering houses, breathing the same stink of shit and piss as every human damned to live in this pit. Ration day is market day and payday combined, and under the eaves and in the doorways the scarecrow people were paying off their debts or begging for loans. Anyone with anything to sell was outside, whispering offers at passers-by, flashing their wares, peddling scraps and buying leftovers. A scoop of barley to write a letter. Nails, barely used, two dozen for a head of cabbage. Shoes, real leather to keep your feet dry, one pair for two full sets of provisions. Ten minutes, ten minutes of your time, darlin’, get something for that crate of yours… Scraps for leftovers.

After curfew, I told Ral about the trusty’s offer. We were sitting in the dark together, our stomachs a bit fuller, and I related to him the entire conversation. Despite my doubts, he was enthusiastic. At the guardhouse, he said, it ought to be relatively easy to get hold of a transfer officer and get shifted to number three.

“As for the price…” I started, but couldn’t go on.

“As for the price,” he finished for me, “everything in this place has one.”


	8. The Pyre

 8th of Raktuber, 162, Meiyerditch, Morytania

    Last night over dinner, Ral mentioned that Mila was up to something. For the past few days, she had been going around borrowing firewood from everyone she knew, never naming a reason.  This morning, he asked me to take a few sticks to her, since she appeared to be in need.

    The three other people Mila shares the house with are all on the construction crew, which means that during the day she has the place to herself. When she opened the door, I could see immediately that something was wrong. Her eyes were red and swollen, and when she greeted me, her sharp voice sounded hoarse and broken. She accepted the firewood without a thank-you, but then, as an afterthought, urged me to come in.

    “You might as well,” she said.

    It was no different from any other house in sector one. With all partitions sacrificed long ago, a single room did every office from kitchen to bedroom. There was no furniture to speak of, unless you counted the crates and barrels which doubled as both storage and seats. The hard-trodden earth floor was bare but clean, and in the middle of it lay an open fire pit, freshly emptied. Around it were scattered Mila’s acquisitions: piles of sticks and logs, pieces of bark and rags, all sorted into neat piles according to size.

    “Sit,” she said. “You can help me get this done.” She had taken the iron spit off the pit, and was laying logs in it. Big split ones, placed face down and parallel to each other. “There’s some hollowwood bark in the heap at your feet,” she said, not looking at me. “Whittle some of it for kindling, will you?” While I complied, she began a second layer, laying this one crosswise to the first. The bark was supple and dry, and a skilled craftsman could have made a pair of decent shoes from the strips I shaved. Mila took them without a word and stuffed them between the logs. “You have to make sure it burns hot enough,” she murmured. “It has to be done before the work shifts are over. No need to get the others in trouble.”

    Before I could say anything, she went on, as if talking to herself:

    “I’ll not let them have him. I don’t care what they’ll do to me, I’m burying him myself.” As I heard the words, I glanced around instinctively, and saw for the first time what was in the corner behind her. It was a woven basket, made from what looked like dried reeds, with a length of rope tied securely around the handle. The other end was badly frayed, and it was easy to imagine the basket hanging from the rafters, pushed occasionally by Mila while she went on with her sewing and washing. Inside it, I could glimpse a bundle of cloth, very small and very still.

    At last, Mila looked up. When she saw what I was staring at, she glanced at the basket, and then went on building the pyre.

    “He died three days ago,” she said flatly. “Fever. He started crying right after curfew. I thought it was just hunger, but he was burning up. He was dead before dawn.” In a terrible split second, it all fell in place. The wood, the bundle, her words of getting done before the work shifts were over, before her housemates returned. At once I understood what she was going to do, and I understood the danger she was in.

    In Meiyerditch, as the single step the vyres take towards preventing disease, the humans are supposed to deliver all their dead to a collection point at the waste dump, where they are picked up and disposed of. As for harbouring or burying a body inside the city walls, it is an offence punished severely. Mila knew this as well as anyone, but she had no reasons left to care. All her movements were calm and deliberate, her face blank, her hands steady. She positioned the logs evenly, stuffing the gaps full of bark and twigs. When the pyre stood five layers high, she laid the rest of the branches against its base. She sat looking at it for a while, and adjusted two of the logs on top.

    “Valentina,” Mila said at last, “remember when I told you to never write anything for free?” She got up to fetch something from a shelf. Then she returned to the pyre, and handed the object to me. “I take it back. I’d appreciate if you could write something for me.” It was a small, round clay jar with a fitted lid. It was of good make, and had probably cost quite a lot on the black market. I didn’t have to ask what it was for.

    “What do you want me to write?” I asked. The pot barely covered my palm, but it was big enough. There would not be much to put in it.

    “Vandis,” Mila said quietly. “I called him that, though I never told anyone. What kind of a damn fool goes and names a baby that small?” She had placed beside me a brush and a small vial of ink, attained Void knows where, together with a stained bottle of oil. As I bent down to my task, she cracked the bottle open to pour it evenly over the wood.

    “Costin gave me these,” she said matter-of-factly. “You met him on ration day, didn’t you? The trusty?”

    “The one who did the counting?” I asked surprised. “You know that man?”

    “Man?” said Mila, cramming oil-soaked rags under the timber pieces. “He’s a cockroach. But he’s useful, from time to time. He did offer you a transfer, didn’t he?” Seeing my expression, she went on: “I put in a word for you the last time I saw him. I said that Ral was keeping a literate woman at number one.” I opened my mouth and closed it again, uncertain what to say. “Look,” Mila said, her tone now more gentle, “Ral’s an old friend, and he’s done me many favours over the years. I don’t why he’s so eager to get to you to sector three, nor do I care, but it was something I could do for him.”

    “Thank-you,” I said, unable to think of anything else. The ink was cheap and thin, and even after two coats, the letters looked faded, but Mila was content.

    “Do you think there should be anything else?” she asked me anxiously, studying my handiwork. “I’ve never buried anyone. I don’t know what should be on an urn.”

    “Dates of birth and death, usually,” I said. Holy symbols. Blessings and prayers.” She considered this for a while, as if uncertain what to make of it. Religion, together with marriage, is an institute long gone from Meiyerditch. Only the freeborn try to practice either, but certain symbols and names —Saradomin, Queen Efaritay, the Seven Priestly Warriors, as evinced by Mila’s choice of name — live on in oral tradition, though few truly understand their meanings.

    “I don’t know any dates. He was born four tithings ago, and that’s the closest I can say. But you can put in a blessing, if you know one.”

    “I do. And I can write the years,” I replied. She nodded, and I set to work again. When the ink had finally dried, this is what it said:

VANDIS

161-162

_Sleep in the light of Saradomin_

    It was what they used to put on gravestones in Catherby. Over the name, I painted a small, four-pointed star. I read the text aloud to Mila, who nodded again.

    “Yes,” she said. “That’s good. Thank-you.” She took the pot from me, careful not to touch the still-damp ink, and laid it on a crate to dry. Then she crouched in the corner, and lifted the basket up gently.

    “It’s for the best that you leave now, Valentina,” she said, her back still to me. “I’m going to start the fire in a minute, and it doesn’t do for you to be here, in case the Watch catch whiff of a body burning.” Her voice was quiet but defiant, and I wondered briefly if she hoped to be discovered. Whether she did, I didn’t ask and couldn’t tell. As I left, my last sight was of Mila crouching by the pyre, the bundle in her arms.

    As I made my way home, heavy drops began to fall from the sky. By the time I slipped back in, they had grown into a vertical downpour. All throughout the afternoon, I kept listening for anything —an alarm, the high-pitched screech of a Watch —but though from time to time I imagined smelling smoke, I never heard a thing but the incessant beat of the rain on the roof. 


	9. Transfer

 23rd of Raktuber, 162, the Guardhouse, Meiyerditch

    So much has happened since my last entry that I’ve not had the time to write, nor have I felt safe enough to do so. I’ve hardly been on my own for a minute, leave alone idle. Besides, I’m afraid of drawing any kind of attention to myself. I never know who might be watching, and allowing anyone to see my scribbling — or my vanishing ink — could have unpredictable consequences.

    Tonight, however, most people in the dormitory are already asleep, and my lantern seems to disturb no-one. It’s a much-welcome reprieve —the ritual of writing calms me down, even when I listen every second for sudden noises or footsteps in the hallway. Sarl is taking longer than usual, which means he will come back weak and tired. I’ll stay up until he does. I never go to sleep alone.

    On the morning of the 11th, right after Ral had left for work, the door was kicked open without a warning. At the entrance stood two juvinates in red uniforms, members of the Watch’s dogsbody auxiliary, who told me to get up and get packed. I was being transferred, which meant I had five minutes to fetch my belongings and come. It’s five minutes for everyone. If you’ve lived in one sector your whole life, five minutes. If you’re leaving behind family, five minutes.

    Abandoning the dishes I had been scrubbing, I rushed to the bedroom and threw together everything I had. Backpack, spare clothes, writing tools, what was left of my rations. I stuffed the lot in a sawed-off crate, thinking frantically if I had forgotten anything.

 _“Two minutes, vermin.”_ Quickly, I tore a scrap of paper from my journal, and scribbled a few words on it with a piece of graphite. _Transferred. Need equipment brought to me. V._

 _“One minute.”_ The voice was bored rather than angry, but I knew how quickly that could change. Sticking the note under Ral’s pillow, I took one last look at the bedroom and hurried out.

    The moment I stepped to the street, one of the guards grabbed me. While the first one patted me down and its partner went through my things for contraband, I noticed a third one was present: a winged Vyrewatch, who circled over the alley like an oversized vulture.

 _“Move!”_ The juvinates were apparently satisfied that I was no smuggler, as the next second I found myself being marched through the lanes of sector one, with my captors barking orders and insults behind me. Suddenly, I comprehended I had no idea where I was being taken, for neither had named a destination. I was being transferred, but where? Number two? Number six? The mines? But as asking a vyre questions is always a bad idea, I held my fear in place until we reached the barricade —thank goodness — that separates number one and number two.

    Here, a carefully choreographed dance took place. The Watch, who had hovered over us all the way, landed to perch atop the ten-foot-tall fence, and operating some unseen mechanism, opened a section of it. This was why it was present in the first place — not for security, but because the juves, whose main job is to take care of all the unsavoury interaction with humans, are not even allowed to operate gates. Instead, we waited on the narrow strip of empty space between the barricades while the Watch closed the first entrance, leaped to the second fence, and repeated its previous actions. When that wall slammed shut too, I was in sector two.

    To all purposes, it looked exactly like sector one. Decaying wrecks for houses, mud underfoot, emaciated faces disappearing from windows. Same smell of shit and death, same gravelly beach to the right. There was one substantial difference, though: Beyond the shacks I could see the bulk of the Guardhouse, an immense and fearsome fortress, built of black stone and encased behind barbed iron railings. The closer we drew to it — for we had not slowed down, and I had no doubt anymore about where I was being lead — the more terrifying its impenetrable, windowless towers looked. I knew nothing about what would happen to me there.

    As we passed through the outer perimeter, my mind flashed briefly back to Ral’s house in number one. There, in a box buried under his bed were the rod, the sickle and the box of medicine. If I lived, if I ever made it to number three, I would have to find a way to have the weapons delivered to me. The thought lived for a moment, and then we were at the door.

           

    I must stop here. Footsteps are approaching in the corridor, and I can already recognize them as Sarl’s. There is no need to hide my writing from him, but his arrival might arouse others. Until another time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since there was nothing more I could think of to tell about sector one, we move on. I considered writing an "ordinary day" chapter, but realized that it would have hardly added anything, since most aspects of daily life had already been covered elsewhere.
> 
> Now it is time to move to the guardhouse, which is the name I gave to the small fortress in the south-east corner of Sanguinesti. Since its function has never been explained in-game, I grabbed it and ran with it, placing there the Vyrewatch headquarters, an administrative center for the ghetto, and the main storehouses. It's a world of its own, a prison within a prison, and I think I'll dwell there for a few chapters.


End file.
